Let's Japan.org Debunking Eikaiwa and Ramblings in Japan

The white Hyundai Pony of Doom rolled to a noisy stop outside my house. The door slammed shut with it's characteristic crusty sound. I walked out to the street and met John by the car. We were soon hurtling down 104th avenue. The floor of the car was covered with the shards of broken cassette boxes. The covers of various Black Sabbath tapes were mashed into the floor and smeared with shoe prints.

Fairies were wearing boots in Ozzie's world. On the back seat of the car were cassettes and empty beer cans. The car smelled like cigarette smoke and gasoline.

John drove straight a head with the steering wheel seemingly at a sharp left turn. A freakish accident a few weeks earlier had left the car unable to drive straight unless the wheel was held at a sharp turn. This confused many of John's passengers and sometimes a fool stupid enough to want to drive the Doom mobile. It seemed to amuse many other motorists.

"Turn left!! Turn left!! Do you want to get us all killed?!" John would scream at the unsuspecting driver.
"I don't want to turn left, asshole. I want to go straight!"
"You'll never go straight unless you turn left! Now turn left you pig fucker!"
"Jesus! What kind of maniac are you?! Get this piece of shit fixed!"
"Can't. I'm broke." John would mutter over his can of beer.

But that was another time. Coming to a slow stop at 104 avenue and 148th street John looked at me over his cop sunglasses.

"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Did you get the job or not?"
"I think I did."
"Fuck."

We pulled into the back parking lot of The Bird. The Bird was a local bar rumored to be owned by Hell's Angels. We had come to watch the dwarf tossing competition.

Inside the bar were sixty or seventy biker types. They wore basically the same clothes: Satanic black biker gear, old jeans, heavy boots, bandannas, black or white T-shirts proclaiming some allegiance to various evil organizations. John's clothes were similar to theirs but I had "broke student" stamped all over me. The bikers were standing around near a sort of ring that looked like what a shot put pitch would look like in Hell. Beer guts cascaded over Harley Davidson belt buckles, smoke swirled all about. These were good men. Not a liar in the bunch. How could anybody be insincere in a place like this and not have his teeth kicked out in a minute?

We found a table a little bit away from the ring. The waitress came over to take our orders.
"I'll have a Kokanee." I said.
"Make mine a double scotch seven," John said while lighting his next Export 'A'.
The drinks arrived shortly.
"Why do you have to got to fucking China to get a job?"
"It's Japan."
"Whatever. Why do you have to go there? You could get a job here."
"It's not just that I want a job. This sounds like a real fucking trip. Think about it. Creeping about in foreign alleys dodging all kinds of shit. The sounds of a strange language could be just what the doctor ordered."
"Get off the fucking pot."

The first contestant, a huge guy with a beard wearing a black leather vest and a T-shirt that said "Give me a reason!" entered the ring. He picked up the dwarf by the special harness and bounced him up and down a little judging his weight.

"C'mon, China's a little too different, don't you think?"
"No. It'll be fun. I really want to get the hell out of this place."
"Hey! Watch your mouth. Nothing wrong with this place."
"Yeah, I know. I've just got to go."

The first contestant steadied himself then started swinging the dwarf back and forth getting some momentum.

"I heard they eat nothing but raw fish and rice. How much you want to bet you get sick of that shit in under two days? No way. Give me a T-bone any time, man, any time," John continued.

The first contestant launched the dwarf across the room where he crashed onto a special mat. His helmet made a sharp cracking sound on the wall.

"Not bad. Not bad. Did you see how far his back swing was?"

For some reason I felt anxious. I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe I was getting cold feet about going to Japan. Maybe it would be too foreign, too strange for me.

The next contestant entered the ring. Another huge guy with tattoos all over his arms. The dwarf had picked himself up and dusted himself off and was returning to the ring.
"Look at the size of this bastard. Hate to wake up next to his old lady one morrning."
Indeed. Indeed.

We sat and watched a few more contestants try their hands at this new sport. Most of them were very good.

A bouncer came up to us and said, "Hey, aren't you guys a little too young to be in here? What are you, fucking college boys?"
"I am not!" John protested loudly.
"No sir. We're old enough to be in here. And as a matter of fact, I am a college student. I'm writing an article for the college newspaper about dwarf tossing. I would like to interview the dwarf."
John's drink nearly came out of his nose as he tried to stop his laugh.
"Oh, OK, yeah. That'll be great. No kidding? A newspaper?"
As my lie began to sink in he seemed to get more excited.
"Alright! That'll be great! Free advertising! I'll get the dwarf over here as soon as this round is over! Fucking A! Now we're getting somewhere!"
The bouncer struggled through the crowd back to the bar.

"Ask him if he ever meets chicks in places like this." John said.
"Are you kidding? I'm not going to interview the dwarf."
"Oh."
"What day is it today?"
"Saturday."
"Jesus Christ what are we doing here?! There's a meat draw over at the Whaler Pub!"
"Oh yeah!"
"For fuck's sake, man. Try to stay on top of things. You're falling apart. Where are your priorities?"
"Meat draw...meat draw...meat draw..."
John was unstoppable now. Nothing could keep him away from gambling for large chunks of animal flesh.
"Let's get the fuck out of here before they ask to meet Knowlton Nash." I said.

The Mazda 323 stopped in front of the passport office in Surrey. I got out and walked into the drab building taking the elevator to the right floor. What is it about passport offices in any country that seems to attract the most desperate looking people? Behind the counter cheerless people shuffle paper to cheerless people. I took a number and sat on a plastic bench to wait for my turn.

"68? 68?" a voice said.
"That's me." I said walking up to the counter.
Behind the counter stood a short woman about middle age or older. Curly gray hair piled up on her head and glasses with a string running around her neck. She was a vision of polyester She looked at me over her lenses.

"And where are you going?" she asked.
"Japan." I answered.
"Oh isn't that wonderful?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you going to visit friends or travel...?"
"I'm going to take a teaching job."
"Isn't that wonderful?" she repeated.
"I've got a nephew over there right now. He's such a good boy. He's doing his mission."
"Oh...I see." The truth was I didn't see."Mission"? What the Hell was that about? Was her nephew a spy? Maybe she was a nut. Just play nicely and the whole thing will be over soon.
"Yes, he's been there for almost a year now. Such a good boy. Helping those people. Helping those poor people"

I was getting a little nervous now. What kind of mission could this guy be on? What did it mean? Helping "those people"? Were the Japanese in need of help? What exactly was I getting into? What should I say to her? Should I create a mission and swear to do my best to help the Japanese? Eat my passport upon arrival in Japan?
I hedged my bets: "I'll do my best, too, ma'am."
"Yes. I'm sure you will."

I sighed in relief. Apparently we were on the same wavelength. Her nephew and I were in the same league. Good Canadians going abroad to help others.

"Now just remember: don't go and get married over there."
"I'm sorry? What?"
"Don't get married over there."
"I hadn't planned on it. If I found myself getting married it would probably be a case of mistaken identity..."
"Just remember that white people marry white people, yellow people marry yellow people, brown people marry brown people and black people marry black people."
I stared at her not quite believing what I had just heard. "How about rednecks?"
"Those are white people, dear."
She finished shuffling and stamping the papers in front of her and handed them to me.
"Take care and remember what I said."
"How could I forget?"

I walked slowly back to the Mazda. What in God's name had I just witnessed? What did it all mean? Were all Canadians issued passports given the same advice before travelling overseas? Maybe there was a glut of single Canadians abroad marrying the hapless inhabitants of foreign countries. Nevertheless, I kept my resolve to travel to Japan.

Later that night me, John, and the White Hyundai Pony of Doom pulled into the parking lot of The Wheelhouse a pub close to Delta. The clientele of the Wheelhouse was definitely a step above the crowd at the Bird. A broke student didn't look as out of place here.

"Whatcha guys want?" asked the bartender.
"Kokanee."
"Double scotch 7."
The bartender waddled of to get the drinks.
"Pull tabs?" John asked.
"Sure. Don't they have hockey cards here?"
"Yeah, over there in the corner. They got the machine. A loonie a pack."

We were both playing the pull tabs and collecting hockey cards and drinking for a couple of hours when John did it. He did something that usually signals the end of the night in an indirect way. He ordered two shots of tequila. I call the stuff bottled anger.

For some reason whenever I get into it, I get angry and all sorts of misunderstandings occur. John gets angry and starts understanding things all too well. John's take on things is usually wrong to begin with and for some reason the tequila doesn't cancel out his original incorrect assumptions. It's a riot.

We were talking loudly as two idiot drunks are prone to do when someone caught wind of my imminent voyage to China.

"China?" a largish longshoreman type burped, "Who's going to China?"
"He is!" John exclaimed.
"Why are you going to China?"
"The cops are looking for me..."
"Seriously, shit-head, why are you going to China?" He seemed a little peeved. Or maybe it was my misunderstanding.
"Seriously, I'm going to study Buddhism. I want to be a monk."
"If you wanna be a monkey you're going to the right place."
"At least I'll be a cultured monkey when I get back."
"Are you trying to be funny?" he turned towards me.
"No. I was just born this way." Was a misunderstanding happening?
The bartender piped up, "Both of you guys shut the hell up."
"Gladly. I'll be as quiet as a monk."
"China ain't no place for a white man," the guy continued, "Ain't no place for a white man working under one of those guys."
"Who guys?" asked John.
"The Goddamned Chinese is who!"the longshoreman stood up facing us now.
We must have looked like two tetherballs dangling in an abandoned schoolyard.
"Alright. That's it. Get the fuck out of the bar." said the bartender to me and John.

We made it back to the Hyundai. We were both too fucked up to drive so we sat in the motionless Doom-mobile.

"I thought that ended quite painlessly," I said.
"Yeah. We must be getting old. Put Sabbath in the cassette player."
"Is Sabbath ever not in the cassette player? Jesus, man. Get some other tapes."
"Start the tape!"

"Hold on. Let's see if there's anything on the radio."

I tuned into a song. Some guy was singing about how "Jesus was just alright" with him. John had the front seat fully reclined and started singing along.
"I don't care what they may say!!! I don't care what they may dooooo!!!!"
"You picked a fine time to get religion, man."
"Jesus is just alright...yeah!!"
"Are you going to be in shape to steer this hunk of shit home soon?"
"Dooo doooo dooooo dooooo dooooo dooo dooooo doooooo!"
"Just as well. I'm going to try to walk home. Don't do anything stupider tonight."
"Jesus is just alright...YEAH!" He started clapping loudly.

What would the neighbors or bar patrons think? Some maniac drunk being born again in the back seat of a Hyundai? Why not? Stranger things have happened I suppose. I used to go to Sunday school in the back of a Pinto. I can't think of a better way for a child to be so close to God. Maybe the drunk had learned something in the Hyundai.

To this day I'm not sure if John's religious conviction lasted longer than the song. My determination to make it to Japan did continue, however. I only got nervous once: as the plane stopped taxiing at the end of the runway just before take off. I thought of jumping up from my seat and demanding the plane turn around drop me off close to the gate. Then I thought it would be ridiculous.

Where are your balls, man? You got yourself into this now you got to go through with it. How chicken shit would it look if you showed up back in the neighborhood after all the talk? My reputation as a man of action would be ruined. Besides, I had promised the lady back at the passport office that I'd do my mission the best I could.

The plane took off.